


Cabinet Curios

by Kit



Category: Monster Blood Tattoo Series - D. M. Cornish
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit/pseuds/Kit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Snatch-snippet from the Dark and Strange Tale of Europa, Duchess in Waiting of Naimes, future Rose of Brandenbrass, and the Leer Licurius, before he had a Box For A Face. True Fabulist Working, 1 sous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabinet Curios

Europa of Naimes, well into her fourteenth year, always knew where she might find Licurius. It did not trouble her overmuch that, when she picked her way through murked files and inky corners where she would find the subtle lurksman, it was because the leer wanted to be found, and found by _her_. She simply satisfied herself with his discovery. At least twice a week. Sometimes more. Europe had long learnt to treasure the _swish_ and rustle of her hems against the rough flags that made up the less salubrious fareways of the mater’s Ducal seat, the air cool and close and silent but for silk and footstep and the sound of her own breathing.

Licurius did not _wait_ for her. Not yet. Those that man waited for, Europe knew with vexed certainty, were grimmer and more interesting than fourteen-year-old unspoored—and _unspoiled_ —girl-flits. He was, however, always _there_ , whether there meant the slip between the upper-servant file and the kitchens, or the twisting hedge of dorathanixa briars meant to keep the unwary and ungloved away from Naimes’s surrounds. The falseman need do no more than lift his head to know where she was: the Duchess-in-waiting could never stop a gasp, at the sight of his face. Europe hated him for it, and more than a little. Leer-Licurius, glancing up from his cabinet work, had only smile to spear her.

One day, hazel eyes flashing brilliant enough to outshine her blush—or so she hoped—Europe asked to see.

“Can’t be doing that, little miss.”   _Despised_ name, from a despicable man.

Well and so. She asked again.

“I think not.”

“You think not? _You_ , leer—”

“—Exactly so. I think often, It has given me…troubles.” His hollow, fluted dip pen, scratching and scratching across ragdraft, or rasped wetting of fine hoarsehair against canvas, which made the girl flinch more surely than any cacophony of knife edge over stone ever would, often accompanied these exchanges. His heavy-jointed fingers dwarfed the vile work so that even the duchess-daughter’s sharp eyes could not make it out. Once, she bit her lip, and he caught it in one swift, incriminating arc of his wrist and a flick of rouge-stained sepia. Europe snarled at his gall.

“Falseman, I _shall_ see.”

He looked at her, then. “I see you shall, little miss,” he said, and she took a step closer—outside, this meeting, and briar thorns catching her trews, her hair, the skin of her shoulders though inside-proofing and new-dyed cloth. “But they are unspeakable things, and so—” a snake strike from his hand, Europe’s outraged, yet strangely muted, cry.

 “If you turn your bright eyes to look," said the Leer, very soft. "Then I must cover your mouth.”  


End file.
